Naked Eyes
by Calfie
Summary: Sakura likes to watch. [SakuVarious, AU]
1. August

AUGUST

The lights are on tonight.

She can see his quivering buttocks as he slides in and out of the woman—sweat streams down the crease in his back, and gathers in the little reservoir created by his ass. Except for his shallow breathing and the creaking of the mattress springs, there's silence.

_Is she pleased?_ Sakura wonders.

Her answer comes with him: there's a gasping grunt and then a few reflexive thrusts, a flood of semen between the woman's thighs. He pulls off, his knees red and raw, and wipes the sweat off his forehead. There's no shared, shy looks of pleasure. No rubbing the sheets. No main course or even dessert for the woman. Rather, she gets up, a bored look on her face and goes to the bathroom to clean up. He settles into bed, and turns the lamp out on his side.

The woman returns and settles down with a magazine.

_Midwest Living._

Eventually the lights turn off, and she can hear the man's deep, untroubled snoring. She knows sleep is something that comes easily to him. The woman is different. She lies twitching on her pillow, turning and tossing a few dozen times before twisting into a position not typically achieved by someone rearing for a long, natural sleep.

The woman, too, falls asleep.

Sakura slides open the closet door carefully, stepping over slippers and an empty laundry basket. She pauses, alarmed to see something moving, but it's only her reflection in the dark window. She creeps down the hall and back to her room.

It's been like this since she was she was seven.

It was about the time when they made her stop sleeping with them. They loved her, of course, and still do, but it's absurd for a fifteen-year-old to come sleep between them every time there's a nightmare or a nasty thunderstorm.

It had been storming that night.

She army-crawled down the hall, and the two were busy kissing when she slipped in. She was on her knees, hidden behind the dresser, transfixed as lighting flashed over their bodies. The thunder was like an orchestra playing her parents on as they slammed together. It scared her, the storm, but she so very badly wanted to see this. She crawled to the closet and left a gap.

It was those late-night pay-per-view movies her dad ordered when Mom was away.

Only better.

She remembers little of the next morning except for waking up in the closet, tangled with her mother's vast collection of pumps and trainers, and looking around wildly until she realized where she was. They were still asleep, and she does remember the soft, contented look on their faces as pale morning light washed over them.

It became a habit, and she got more and more stealthy, had a few close shaves and even relinquished the habit once—but she kept coming back for more, and as her world got wider and more complex with age, she found more opportunities and avenues to exploit unknowing couples.

Only once, admittedly.

Ino's mom and dad, at her thirteenth birthday party.

But more opportunities are aloft.

Just you wait and see.

. . .

Sasuke and Naruto are a pair of homosexuals Sakura has known since middle school. Shortly after Ino's fateful thirteenth, she began to show the visible effects of puberty and thusly was too busy to be best friends. So Sakura had done a bit of soul-searching and found companionship with these two, a kid who collected razor blades for various reasons, and a boy who had been suspended for two weeks for pissing in the memorial bouquet set up for the old principal near the playground.

They bickered a lot. But they'd also cultivated the sort of relationship where they could talk about anything—including the "anything" they are discussing right now.

They three were the only ones who knew about Sakura's disgusting habit.

Her stomach clenches in agony and pleasure when they ask, flat out, if she wants to watch _them_.

"You're kidding," she says in disbelief, eyes going from boy to boy.

"Well, more that we want to watch ourselves," says Sasuke, "we want you to record it."

"Isn't that... illegal?"

"Never mind that," he says irritably, "we need someone to be the camera man."

"_Why_?"

Naruto's too busy stuffing his face to make any coherent comment, and so when he sets down his fork, it's a surprise to hear him clearly and plainly for the first time in minutes. "Sakura! Just do it for us. _Please_."

"She will," says Sasuke, smirking. "She just doesn't want to look too eager."

Precisely.

She sighs, although it's a relieved, almost dreamy sigh. "All right... so _when_?"

. . .

_Something's wrong with me_, she always thought.

Obviously.

She doesn't tell Naruto and Sasuke everything about her habit, what it leads to, what measures she will take to be satisfied. They only know the bare minimum—that sometimes she likes to hide in her parents' closet and watch. Whatever conclusions they come to after that, whatever gaps they fill in are their own.

She's never touched herself afterwards.

Only once.

Cocooned in the ugly plaid sleeping bag her dad lent her, and coming down from her sugar high, after spying on Ino's mom and dad, when everyone else was asleep, she did it. She was quiet. She'd done it before, after watching movies.

And this had excited her.

Ino's dad was big and blond and handsome, and Ino's mom was petite and dark-haired, small-breasted.

She crumpled like a bug sprayed with insecticide and cried when she came.

She was sobbing.

_What's wrong with me_.

The breathless anticipation. The knowing that they didn't know she was there. The very real, in-the-flesh vision of skin and sweat and sound, in brilliant, breathing technicolor.

_I know what's wrong with me._

_But I'm not going to fix it, am I._


	2. September

SEPTEMBER

What is this, a dream? Here she stands, holding a camcorder—Sasuke's birthday present—in her shaky hands. Steady girl, she tells herself, but she's positively quaking like a Parkinson's patient with excitement, nervousness. It all roils in her belly when the boys, who need no direction, because this is something that has a plain, patented course, begin sucking face. Beautiful. Ministering angels of her disease.

A bead of sweat rolls down her forehead as she watches Sasuke's head bob between Naruto's legs both on screen and in real life; Naruto's mouth is wide open, sometimes gaping stupidly, and towards denouement, his teeth clenched tightly and his eyes screwed shut, his white-knuckled hands tugging on Sasuke's sleek dark hair. He comes and slumps forward. An odd slurping sound follows—

Ah, Sasuke swallows.

He himself is still hard, and he flips Naruto's spent body over, and mounts him, driving in hard and fast. His dark eyes stare directly into the camera for a moment, and Sakura feels a flash of heat in her belly. The daylight renders him wild and slightly deranged, like an animal plugging away with no exact purpose except pleasure. Naruto's groaning is quieted by the fist in his mouth. His knuckles bleed.

There is no precise word for Sasuke's expression when he comes. She isn't quite prepared for it.

"_Fuck_," he mutters with one last thrust.

"And cut," she jokes when Sasuke drops onto the bed, parallel to Naruto, who has already fallen asleep. The joke isn't ignored as Sasuke snorts, looking completely tired. But satisfied. More satisfied than she's ever seen him. She shuts off the camcorder and sets it on the shelf carefully.

"Now what?"

"A nap, I guess," he says. "You can stay for dinner if you want."

She curls up on the floor, darkly satisfied with another kind of sensation she can't place.

. . .

The business carries on for couple weeks until she can tell Sasuke is irritated—"Why is Naruto always cut out of it? I want to see his face, too"—with the whole damnable process. Hey, it wasn't her idea to begin with. She's more careful with her shots, and even borrows a library book on camerawork. Predictably there's no section on amateur child pornography, and how to make it, but she learns some interesting things as she pages through it, and gets some ideas.

She definitely doesn't want to remove the natural sequence or give any physical direction to the boys—that's what makes it all the more riveting, she knows, and to do so would rob the project of any meaning for them and any pleasure for her. Instead, what she takes from the book is to do different angles.

"What the–"

Sasuke looks bewildered as she stuffs the camera between two pillows and props it up on Sasuke's geometry textbook.

"Shut up," she hisses, and stands in the corner to admire. The [REC] button blinks steadily as Sasuke pounds into Naruto, and Naruto's every feature, gesture and movement is caught on film. Afterwards, Sasuke watches on the camcorder with a pleased expression. The little square of light glows over his face, and Naruto's, whose is red and pained.

"Oh man, I didn't realize I had a pimple there," he whines, peering into the mirror on Sasuke's closet door. He pokes at it forlornly before turning back to them.

"Well?" she asks Sasuke.

He turns the camera off, and sets it on the dresser. "I like it."

"_I _don't," Naruto says archly.

"Who cares?" Sakura and Sasuke say at the same time.

He glares indignantly at them both. "I–"

"Stop acting like a little bitch," Sasuke says snidely. "It's not for you. It's for me."

"I though it was for both of us?"

Naruto is ignored.

"_Anyway_. Sakura. It's nice, and frankly, I could've come up with the idea. The thing was, you like to watch, I like to be watched, and I like being recorded. But what good is it just to have you stand in the corner while the camera's over here? Figure out something else, or you're done."

"You think it's creepy," she says flatly.

"No—well, okay, yeah. You purposely watch your parents have sex, for god's sake. I thought maybe this would be a healthier outlet."

"A _healthier outlet_?"

"We're your friends. We're just trying to help you," he says, his voice taking on something oddly authoritative.

She gives him a look. "This isn't healthy. It's never going to _be _healthy. I realized that a long time ago. I came to terms with it."

"What do you want to do, then? Hide in my closet and do creep shots?" he asks, exasperated.

"That's an idea," she says.

Sasuke looks like he regrets ever opening his mouth.

. . .

It isn't that her friends are lovely and wonderful for indulging her, and it isn't that the thrill of watching has gone stale. She's watched, and continues to watch, her parents on the side, and it's something totally different from standing in Sasuke's closet and filming. They _know _that she's there. And that in itself is... boring. She begins to hate it. She hates Sasuke's staring into the camera now. She hates the way Naruto grins widely and makes a peace sign with his fingers before sucking Sasuke's dick. She hates being acknowledged. And that's why she tells Sasuke she can't do it any more.

"Fine," he says angrily at lunch.

"Don't be mad." She tries to placate him by giving him the tomatoes in her salad.

He takes them grudgingly. "We were just trying to help you."

"I know."

But she also knows that ever since that up-front video, Naruto has been alarmingly self-conscious, and having trouble getting it up. He doesn't like himself—that's something surprising to learn. Naruto not liking how he looks. What's he want to be, an underwear model? It doesn't matter, as long as Sasuke likes him, pimples and all. Someone who regularly plays on the skins team in gym class suddenly playing on the lame shirts team because his nipples are slightly asymmetrical. Pathetic. She tells him so.

"Why don't you make a video of yourself, then, and watch it and see how horrible-looking you are!" he protests.

"Thanks a lot."

"You know I didn't mean it like that."

"Sure."

. . .

She tries touching herself one night, to the memories of Sasuke and Naruto.

There isn't, obviously, any fresh material to go by. But she conjures up one of the sessions—one of the ones where she was in the closet, holding the camera with sweaty, slippery palms—and pretends that they're whispering things to each other. She can't hear what they're saying. Eyes on each other. Love. Affection.

She groans when the fantasty-Naruto waves at her. She slams her head back into the pillow, fingers steadily slowing down. There's a hot burst of frustration when she begins anew—this time, however, her parents float to the surface of her mind.

She comes almost instantly.

Usually masturbating puts her right to sleep.

Fear and shame keep her up all night.


End file.
